A Chair In Its Proper Place
by gauchadeutsche
Summary: Missing scenes from His Last Vow, mostly revolving around the big reveal and the missing months between it and Christmas at the Holmes'. 4th story now up as the new Ch. 3.
1. A Chair In Its Proper Place

I found it highly suspicious that John stayed quiet the whole time at Leinster Gardens, and when the lights went up he didn't look surprised at all. Then I watched the Baker Street scene again, and I suspect that by the time he went over there, he already knew who the shooter was. As always, I explore my theories by writing them down. Enjoy.

Some dialogue taken from His Last Vow. I do not own it.

* * *

**A Chair In Its Proper Place**

Tired, rumpled, and sick with worry, John Watson returned to his best friend's hospital room. He had left Sherlock's bedside for a few minutes, to buy some vile-tasting hospital coffee and call Mary. It was three in the morning, but no one in Sherlock's circle of friends and family was asleep, not on this awful night when they'd almost lost him (again).

The door was ajar. John frowned, remembering that he had closed it before leaving. A rush of terror filled him as he realized that someone had tried to kill his best friend, and that person could very well come back!

He dropped the coffee cup, ready to sneak into the room and take down an assassin, when the sight of a long, black umbrella stopped him.

Mycroft.

"—let your sentiment get the better of you, little brother," the smarmy git was saying. "Doctor Watson, do come in."

He hadn't even turned around. John thought better of asking how he'd known it was him—Sherlock always knew, and John wouldn't give Mycroft the satisfaction of asking.

"Nice of you to visit your brother," John said sarcastically. He knew there was little love lost between those two.

"John," Mycroft said, with the air of an exasperated parent talking to a toddler, "despite appearances, my brother is dearer to me than anyone in this world. The reverse is not true, but then, little brothers are known for being ungrateful."

"What makes you say that?" John asked, curious. "Who knows Sherlock well enough to know whom he loves most?"

Mycroft gave him a look that smacked of pity.

"Did he ever tell you why he jumped from the roof of St. Bart's?" he asked. "I imagine not."

John fought a surge of anger. The false suicide was a topic he hoped _never_ to discuss again. "He jumped to trick Moriarty's people into thinking he was dead, so he could infiltrate the network and take them down from the inside."

"Is that what he told you?" Mycroft Holmes said, decidedly unimpressed.

"Are you saying he lied?" John demanded, his voice rising, "Because I've already forgiven him for faking his death for two years."

"Yes, after making him bleed for the privilege," the elder Holmes brother drawled. "Sherlock did not tell you the full truth. Do you remember the assassins that Moriarty sent to Baker Street?"

"I will never forget," the doctor said, with feeling.

"Three snipers," Mycroft continued. "Three targets, the people Sherlock loved most in all the world. Only two things could call them off: Moriarty's orders, or Sherlock's death. Moriarty shot himself to prevent the first option."

John sank onto his chair. No one had _ever_ told him this. He turned automatically to Sherlock, but there was no answer in the unnaturally pale, still face of the unconscious genius.

"I need hardly add that _I_ was not one of the three targets," Mycroft said, and his tone was even enough to suggest no sadness. His eyes, however, could not hide the truth. "My little brother, the so-called _high-functioning sociopath_, jumped to his apparent death to save the lives of his best friend, his landlady, and Detective Inspector Lestrade."

"I never believed he was a sociopath," John said hoarsely.

"No one with an ounce of intelligence would believe it," the British Government replied, and there was a trace of venom in it. "I'm glad you know better, Doctor Watson. You will never know just how much my brother sacrificed for you. I've seen evidence of torture and post-traumatic stress, only what he allowed me to see. I know the scars run deeper than that."

John's face had turned completely bloodless. As smart as Sherlock was, he'd always been so far removed from the horrors of battle, at least in John's mind. He could scarcely believe what he was hearing. He had no idea how someone like Sherlock, who hid behind a stoic facade, would deal with the worst of human nature, when exposed to it in such a brutal way.

"When I extracted him from that Serbian dungeon, half-starved and nearly dead, the first person he asked for was you," Mycroft told him. "When he returned to London, he was eager to see you. It never crossed his mind that you wouldn't feel the same; the wounds on his back were still healing when you knocked him to the floor in that restaurant."

John winced.

"Ah, well," Mycroft finished airily. "I've always warned him that caring is not an advantage, and that people will move on and leave him behind in the end. He ignored my advice. I really hope he doesn't regret it later on."

"He won't!" John cried, indignant. "Because he ignored your rubbish advice, he has friends who care about him!"

"We'll see how long that lasts, won't we?" the man replied, sneering. "My best to Mary," he said, then turned his back to John. To the doctor's astonishment, Mycroft smoothed the unruly curls on his brother's forehead, and bent down to whisper something in his ear. Then, with a swish of his brolly, he was gone.

* * *

Five days later, John Watson, Martha Hudson, and Greg Lestrade had gathered at 221B Baker Street, sick with worry for Sherlock. He had disappeared from the hospital, only six days after getting shot. Mycroft, Mary, Molly, even Anderson had joined the search, listing every known bolt hole. Mycroft's men, the homeless network, the Empty Hearse, and Mary Watson were scouring London for signs of the detective.

"He knew who shot him," John repeated tiredly. "The bullet wound was here, so he was facing whoever it was," he added, pointing to his chest.

"So why not tell us?" Lestrade insisted, and then it hit him. "Because he's tracking them down himself."

"Or protecting them," John said.

"Protecting the shooter, why?" Greg asked.

"Well, protecting someone then. But why would he care? He's Sherlock. Who would he bother protecting?" John thought aloud.

He sat in his chair, thinking. Who was important enough to Sherlock that he'd protect them, especially at such a high personal cost? Suddenly, John remembered his last conversation with Mycroft Holmes.

"_My little brother, the so-called high-functioning sociopath, jumped to his apparent death to save the lives of his best friend, his landlady, and Detective Inspector Lestrade."_

What a coincidence, thought John wildly, that all three sniper targets were in the same room tonight.

"Call me if you hear anything," the DCI ordered. "Don't hold out on me, John. Call me, okay?"

"Yeah," John said, distracted. "Yeah, right."

"Good night, then."

"Bye, then," called Mrs. Hudson, following Greg to the door. "John, need a cuppa?"

Only then did John realize that his chair was back in its proper place.

"_Hey, what happened to my chair?"  
_

"_It was blocking my view to the kitchen," Sherlock had said, surly as a teenager. "You were gone; I saw an opportunity."_

"Mrs. Hudson," asked John, "why does Sherlock think that I'll be moving back in here?"

"Oh yes," chattered the landlady, "he's put your chair back again, hasn't he? That's nice. It looks much better."

John went very still. He had just noticed the familiar, moon-shaped bottle of perfume on his table. It was Claire-de-la-lune. A hum of panic was rising in his head. No. No!

"_Claire-de-la lune, why do I know it?" Sherlock had whispered in Magnussen's office._

"_Mary wears it," John had answered, busy with Janine's head injury._

"John, what's wrong? Tell me. John?" Mrs. Hudson asked, concerned at his prolonged silence.

"_You, Mrs. Watson, are in big trouble. His first word when he woke up...Mary!"_

No. It's not possible. She would never! Why would she? He was their friend, their best man!

His phone buzzed then, drawing Mrs. Hudson's attention. "That's your phone, isn't it?"

"_Protecting the shooter, why?" Greg had asked, not five minutes ago._

"_Well, protecting someone then. But why would he care? He's Sherlock. Who would he bother protecting?"_

To his knowledge, John realized, the only shooter Sherlock has ever protected was John himself. He'd shot the cabbie. Sherlock had known immediately. He'd helped John remove the powder burns.

"It's Sherlock, John. Sherlock!"

"_When I extracted him from that Serbian dungeon, half-starved and nearly dead, the first person he asked for was you."_

John had frozen in place, looking straight ahead into his memories. He pulled himself together and his eyes caught sight of the perfume bottle again.

"John?" Mrs. Hudson called again, worried. "You have to answer it!"

John took a deep breath, and answered the phone. There was only one way to know.

"Where are you, Sherlock? Where is she?" he asked, tense.

A sharp intake of breath on the other side told him Sherlock was surprised, or in pain, or both. "You've deduced the identity of my shooter, then?"

"Please, Sherlock," John asked, close to his breaking point. "Just tell me."

"Come to 23 Leinster Gardens, and we'll see if you've deduced correctly."

There was a short pause.

"John—I'm sorry."

* * *

That's all for now, folks! I might go on and write about the lost months between the fight at Baker Street and Christmas at the Holmes' house, but I do have another Sherlock fic that I started before the Series 3 madness, and I really want to finish it. lol

Leave some feedback if you're so inclined, it's always appreciated. =)


	2. Awakening

This is not a new chapter, really, it's more of a separate one-shot in the same universe as _Chair_, but after Sherlock returns to the hospital. Unfortunately I can't mark one story as part of a 'series' like I can on ao3, so I'm posting it this way. Hope you enjoy, and as always, reviews are always appreciated.

* * *

**Awakening**

John refused to go home with Mary.

His best friend had almost died for the second time in a week. He had climbed out of his hospital room window, dashed across town, rearranged the furniture, and planned a trap, all so John would see and understand. It was a terrible plan, and John _still_ didn't understand.

Mary had shot Sherlock in the chest. Given the chance, she might have shot him again tonight.

What sort of nightmare world had John fallen into? The woman he loved, the woman he'd promised to honor and cherish until he died, was a lie. As much as John would have loved to hate her right now, she was carrying his child...and Sherlock appeared to have forgiven her.

Why?

John rubbed his temples, hoping the headache would go away and take all this confusion with it. His bum was sore from sitting on the hard plastic chair, but he couldn't be bothered to think of that now. Sherlock, the stupid, _stupid_ genius, was still in danger, and John had nowhere to go.

Unable to sit still any longer, John paced up and down the waiting room like a caged tiger. He refused to leave the hospital until Sherlock was safe again, and Mrs. Hudson was in no condition to stay up all night, not after the awful day they'd had. As for Lestrade...

John grimaced. He'd done exactly what he had promised not to do, and left Greg out of the loop. How did one call up a friend and say 'Alright Greg? Just so you know, it was my lying wife who shot Sherlock'? The ex-army doctor had no idea.

"Doctor Watson?"

John turned, and there stood the middle-aged surgeon in charge of Sherlock. Immediately, John looked for tell-tale signs of defeat, relaxing slightly when he saw none.

"He's pulled through," John sighed, inwardly thanking any listening gods.

Dr. Patel smiled. "He has, indeed. I've no idea how this man can come so close to death and then return to us; Dr. Johnson told me he flat-lined when he was first shot, and just as they'd given up he came back. He's done it again."

John nearly sank back onto his chair in relief. "Good."

"We'll keep him under for a bit, give his body some time to heal. I'm not sure how often he climbs out of hospital windows while recovering from a gunshot wound, but I'd rather not risk it anytime soon."

"That's fair," agreed John. If he'd been Sherlock's assigned doctor, he might have done the same.

"Well, that's my bit of news for tonight," the doctor said kindly. "I'm required by the hospital to tell you that visiting hours are over, and that you should return tomorrow morning. However," he added wryly, "Mycroft Holmes has been in touch, again. John Watson, Gregory Lestrade, Molly Hooper, and Martha Hudson are allowed and encouraged to stay with Sherlock as long as they like. Feel free to board up his window and force-feed him while you're here."

John chuckled at this. "Thank you, Doctor."

The two doctors shook hands amicably, and John rushed up the familiar stairs to Sherlock's new room. It was two floors above the last one, perhaps to dissuade Sherlock from exiting through the window.

"Hi, Sherlock," John told the man on the bed. The lights were off except for the safety light by the door, and the various lights of the machines. Sherlock's heartbeat was slow and steady, his breathing even.

A faded armchair had been placed under the window, and there John sat, pulling back the lever and reclining. The chair was red, and oddly familiar to the one he'd left behind at Baker Street. A lump rose to his throat, and unconsciously, he fingered the USB drive in his pocket.

The flat he shared with Mary was not home. It had been for months, but he could not stand the thought of returning now, of climbing into bed with a woman he didn't know. It wasn't the faceless victims that bothered him; John had killed men as a soldier, and it was part of the job. What bothered John was that Mary Watson didn't exist. The woman he'd married was an unknown entity, one who had _seen_ how much John had hurt after losing Sherlock, and had shot the man anyway.

"She would have killed you to keep her secret from me," John whispered to Sherlock. "So why are you telling me to trust her? Don't you know what that would have done to me?"

There were no answers in Sherlock's face. This man had jumped off a building and disappeared for two years, endured torture and starvation and who knew what else, to save his friends from Moriarty. Even though John had called him a psychopath in his anger tonight, he knew it wasn't true.

"Sleep, Sherlock," John said, closing his own eyes. "Tomorrow you'll wake up, and I'll tell you what an idiot you are, and then you'll help me pull myself together."

* * *

It had taken three days for Sherlock to wake up fully. In those three days, John had requested leave from the clinic (he couldn't face working with _her_), drunk more bad coffee than he'd ever had in his life, and packed his things while Molly sat with Sherlock.

He'd been wrong. He had always had somewhere to go in times of need, and this was one of those times. He had cleaned the old second bedroom at Baker Street, and dumped his boxes there before coming to the hospital.

Sherlock had saved him from depression and a psychosomatic limp, years ago. Perhaps now he could save him from a broken heart.

On the third day since Sherlock's relapse, John relieved Mrs. Hudson and took a seat at the detective's bedside. All was quiet, as usual, and John had brought some medical journals to pass the time. He read for hours, with the steady beeping of Sherlock's monitor for company. Nurses came and went, checking his vitals and morphine drip occasionally.

At half past eight, the detective's eyes fluttered open.

"John?"

John dropped his magazine and rushed to Sherlock's side. "Sherlock! How do you feel?"

The detective took a mental inventory of his aches and pains. "Like I've been shot and then injected with morphine."

The former soldier couldn't help but laugh. In the meantime, Sherlock's eyes had turned to the doctor, and John found himself under surveillance. He'd been on the receiving end of Sherlock's scans before; this one was particularly uncomfortable.

"You've left Mary," Sherlock deduced.

"Yes, Sherlock," John sighed. "I've left the assassin who shot you and moved back to Baker Street, at least for now."

"Why?" the dark-haired man asked, very quietly. "She loves you; she shot me to protect you. I may not like the result of our encounter, but I understand her motive."

"You would, wouldn't you?" John snapped. "Both of you are very choosy about which bits of truth you share with _me_."

Sherlock could tell that this conversation was headed nowhere good. "John—"

"No. You shut up, and listen for once," John continued, building up steam. "You asked me why I left. Sherlock, she knows what a mess I was when you jumped. She was there when I pulled myself together, and she was there when you came back. She saw what it did to me, and in the end none of that mattered to her as long as her secret was safe. She even told me she liked you, that day you came back!"

"Yes, but Magnussen—" Sherlock insisted, using his remote to sit up in bed. John silenced him with a quick hand gesture.

"You kept your plan secret from me because Moriarty had a sniper aiming for my head, and once his network was gone, I was out of danger. _She_ kept her past from me out of fear, and who knows if someday the CIA won't show up, looking for her? Will not knowing protect me _then_?"

He was pacing again. Sherlock, who had lived with him for years, knew that was very Not Good.

"I don't know if I can forgive her, Sherlock. The dream is over," he said bitterly. "and John Watson is awake. If you had died from this, I would have turned her in myself. I still might, you know."

John turned to the bed. Sherlock was wearing the same expression he'd worn in the abandoned Tube car, when John had told him he was the best and wisest man he knew. It was the look of a man who had never received kindness in his life, suddenly realizing that he had a friend. It was more than John could take in his current state of mind.

"So," John finished, feeling a bit self-conscious, "do you mind if I stay with you, until everything is sorted?"

Sherlock cleared his throat. "No," he rasped, reaching for a cup of water. "I don't mind at all."

The doctor sighed with relief. "Good, because I've already moved my stuff back. Any experiments I should know about?"

"There is a rather delicate mold sample in the kitchen," the detective admitted, his eyes shining with happiness (or perhaps it was the morphine). "I'll need photos and your professional opinion of the smell to conclude my experiment from here."

"Right," said John, "Sorry I asked."

Like two children, they looked at each other and grinned. There would be plenty of time to ponder the future, and make sense of John's marriage troubles. For now, John's best friend was alive and recovering, and that was enough to get on with.


	3. Out in the Open

**Out in the Open**

Dr. Patel, thought John, would probably throw a party tonight, once he was rid of them.

Between Sherlock's inability to keep still and let himself heal, his cocaine withdrawal combined with malnutrition and exhaustion, and a post-surgery infection scare, the detective had been at the hospital for four weeks, not counting the week before his escape. It was a blessed relief that the younger Holmes brother had a room to himself, or he'd have driven his roommate mad within hours.

John himself had visited every day, although his new job kept him busy during regular work hours. He'd enlisted Greg, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, and Anderson's fan club to fill Sherlock's room with visitors, eliminating the chance of a second escape. No matter how abrasive Sherlock became, none of them had backed down, and Greg had left with some interesting videos on his mobile. Even Bill Wiggins had popped by, and amused Sherlock by deducing the other visitors and passing nurses with surprising accuracy.

It was amazing to see how many friends Sherlock had, really.

On the eighth of October, Sherlock was to be discharged, pending a final visit from his doctor. John had taken the day off work, to help Sherlock settle back into Baker Street. Bill had come too, looking strangely clean and sober. He'd sat in Sherlock's hospital room, reading a comic book, as John helped the detective to and from the shower.

Now, John supervised as the dark-haired man poked at his breakfast.

"I mean it, Sherlock. Eat the lot."

Sherlock made a face that might have been called a pout. "Look at it, John! What exactly is this supposed to be?"

John squinted down at the plate. "It's a slice of banana, Sherlock. Honestly. Any room for fresh fruit and veg in that mind palace of yours?"

"Only if it's relevant in a murder case," Sherlock retorted, poking the soggy banana slice with his fork. "Billy, go down to the canteen and buy me some proper food," he ordered, startling Wiggins out of his reading.

"You have food," Wiggins objected.

"Not really. Go on, I'll give you twenty pounds if it's the breakfast special from the restaurant across the street," Sherlock added, staring expectantly at his junkie friend.

John sat down with a huff. Sherlock was such a child!

"Oh, wait a mo," Wiggins said suddenly, peering out into the corridor. "There's an older couple coming this way."

John saw an alarmed expression crossing Sherlock's face. "Describe them."

"He's about six feet tall, wearing a bow tie and an old checked shirt," Billy recited, "prominent cheekbones, white hair. She's turned her coat collar up, and her eyes look just like—" he stopped, looked at Sherlock, and grinned. "It's your mum and dad, innit, Shezza?"

The detective groaned theatrically. "I don't suppose you two could leave?"

"Sherlock, you might convince the rest of the world that you were grown in a lab," John said, exasperated, "but your friends know that you have parents, and by all accounts, they're lovely people. Calm down, will you? I'm sure they left the embarrassing baby pictures at home."

Sherlock looked ill. "I wouldn't count on it."

Mrs. Holmes chose that moment to open the door, her husband following.

"Oh, Sherlock darling!" she cried, heading straight for his bed and kissing him. Wiggins caught John's eye and they both grinned at Sherlock's scowl. "Myc says you're going home today."

"Yes, Mum," he answered, resigned. "Hello, Dad."

"It's good to see you so lucid, son," Mr. Holmes told him, his eyes over-bright. "You had us worried."

"Business as usual, then," Sherlock said flippantly. A stranger would have thought this callous, but Sherlock's father knew him too well to be offended.

Mrs. Holmes then realized there were more men in the room. "Oh, John!" she said, extending a hand to him delightedly. "It's wonderful to meet you at last. Margaret Holmes," she introduced herself, and John shook her hand. "I've been reading your blog since the Chinese acrobat case!"

"Oh, wow," John said, impressed. "I had no idea. You're not one of my anonymous commenters, are you?"

"No, I just read the blog entries and then ring Sherlock to tell him off when he's careless," she admitted readily.

"I can't thank you enough for what you've done for my boy," Margaret whispered, sneaking a glance at Sherlock, who was talking to his father. "He was so alone until he met you, and you saw past the prickly exterior and became a friend to the good man inside."

John was getting uncomfortably pink about the ears. "He did the same for me, Mrs. Holmes—"

"Margaret, please!" she ordered, louder. "You're practically family."

"Are you adopting John, Mum?" Sherlock objected, raising an eyebrow. "His own parents might have a problem with that."

"Nonsense! It's about time we met your best friend properly, Sherlock."

"Ah, Doctor John Watson," her husband said, coming to join her and shaking John's hand vigorously. "William Holmes."

"Nice to meet you," John told him sincerely. "This is Bill Wiggins," he added, so Bill wouldn't be left out.

"Alright?" said Wiggins, giving a quick smile from his seat.

"Now, what's all this food doing on your plate, Sherlock?" Margaret asked, and John didn't have to look to feel Sherlock wince. "You're not getting out of this room until you eat it all."

Mrs. Holmes was not a woman to trifle with. She glared at her son until he ate every bite, no matter how much he complained. Mr. Holmes watched with a fond smile, and began a lively discussion of football with John and Wiggins.

That is how Dr. Patel found them, when he arrived at eleven o'clock.

"Good morning, Mr. Holmes," he said cheerfully, looking a bit surprised to see four visitors in the room. "Ah, you must be Sherlock's parents," he recovered, extending a hand to Mrs. Holmes.

"Good morning, Doctor," she said, shaking it.

"Right," the doctor told them, "this should be fairly quick, so if you could step outside for a moment, I'll examine my patient and declare him fit to leave, if all goes well."

The men stepped outside Sherlock's room, still discussing the latest match. Margaret Holmes was a step behind them, warning her son to behave himself with a stern glare.

"Right," she said comfortably, smiling at the other three. "Lunch, anyone?"

"Please," agreed John. "We'll need our strength today."

"Isn't that the truth," Mr. Holmes concurred, chuckling.

With the ease of a loving, older married couple, he offered an arm to his wife and they led the way.

"I remember when Sherlock was ten," William told John and Wiggins, "some boys from his school got together after class and roughed him up, broke his arm. He didn't even cry about the pain, but staying in hospital?" He shook his head fondly. "We had to sedate him to stop him complaining. He was bored out of his skull."

John winced at this casual reminder of childhood bullying. He'd never stopped to ponder Sherlock's life as a little boy, cleverer than his whole class put together, and probably his teachers, too. It could not have been pleasant.

"Did he have any friends as a boy?" John asked earnestly.

There was a slight pause as they waited for the lift.

"None but Redbeard," Margaret Holmes answered.

For a moment, John wondered where he had heard that name before. Then, with surge of disgust, he remembered the repellent Charles Magnussen and his visit to 221B. It seemed a lifetime ago, even though it had been the same day as The Shooting.

"_Obviously the letters no longer have any practical use to you, so with that in mind..." Sherlock was saying. Once he noticed Magnussen's distraction, he huffed. "Something I said?"_

"_No, no," replied the newspaper mogul. "I was reading. There's rather a lot."_

_He did this while adjusting his glasses. Wildly, John wondered if he had some sort of high-tech spectacles that allowed him to see through Sherlock's expensive suits and indecently tight shirts._

"_Redbeard," murmured the visitor._

_The name meant nothing to John, but slight movement on his left told him that Sherlock understood...and was unnerved._

"A pet?" John asked aloud.

"Yes, our Irish Setter," Sherlock's mum answered.

"I bought him for Sherlock," her husband explained. "He was a brilliant boy, but had difficulty making friends. I thought a dog would be just the ticket, and so it was."

"He was seven years old at the time, and wild about pirates," Margaret recalled. "So as soon as Dad came home with the puppy, Sherlock named him Redbeard. They were inseparable."

They reached the hospital exit, and crossed the street to the little cafe. As they ordered drinks, Wiggins asked what John didn't dare; if Redbeard had been just another childhood pet, it would not have been a 'pressure point' for Magnussen.

"What happened to Redbeard?"

William Holmes closed his eyes. "When he was fifteen, Sherlock said something to a classmate at school. The little cretin decided that hurting Redbeard would be appropriate revenge." He paused. "Sherlock found the poor bugger in a park near the school, too injured to come home. We had to put Redbeard down that evening."

The smiling waitress appeared to take their orders, but John had lost his appetite. He asked for the first sandwich on the menu, too distracted to care.

"That's why we were so delighted when Mycroft told us about you, John," Margaret said, eager to lighten the mood. "He's never had anyone to confide in except a dog, and that Victor boy at university."

John raised an eyebrow. Victor boy?

"Who's Victor?" asked Wiggins between chips.

"We're not quite sure," Mrs. Holmes replied, scrupulously honest. "All we know is that Mycroft saw them together quite a bit, studying and having fun."

"I've never heard Sherlock mention Victor," John told her, shrugging. "But he _does_ talk to me when I'm not home, so that might have been a reason."

"Maggie does the same," William told them, casting his wife a fond glance. "When I first met her, she was walking around our university library, muttering mathematical formulas to herself. She didn't even stop to say sorry when she knocked me down."

Mrs. Holmes blushed and swatted his arm. "I apologized later!"

"Two weeks later," her husband said, grinning, "when you did it again."

John watched them, fascinated. His family had no shining examples of marital bliss, and his own marriage—the doctor cut off that train of thought. Sherlock's parents, though...they were unexpected. At first glance they appeared like a happy, normal couple, so different from their two sons that they might have been a different species.

And yet, there was an air of Sherlock about Mrs. Holmes, something that John couldn't quite place beyond the physical resemblance. At the same time, John could see a bit of Sherlock in his father, too. Perhaps in thirty years, when he'd mellowed out some and his hair turned white, his best friend would be more like William Holmes.

"What did you study, Mr. Holmes?" John asked, realizing that he had no clue.

"I'm a retired English Literature professor," said he, smiling in good humor. "I married a mathematician, and my sons are a chemist-turned-detective and a government agency bigwig. Who could have predicted that?"

"Not I," chuckled Margaret, then sipped daintily at her tea.

Before John could comment, his phone buzzed. The text was typically Sherlockian in brevity and rudeness:

_Discharged at last. Come at once. Have Wiggins distract parents. SH_

"Best finish up soon," John suggested. "Sherlock is free to leave."

Wiggins looked sadly at his plate.

"On second thought," the doctor amended, "you three finish your lunch, and come back to Baker Street when you've eaten. You'll be spared a _horrid_ cab ride with the world's grumpiest detective."

"Thank you, dear," Sherlock's mother said. "We'll be along shortly."

John left a tenner on the table to cover his lunch, then ran back across the street to the hospital. The second he stepped out of the lift, a Belstaff-covered whirlwind dragged him back in.

"Finally!" Sherlock huffed. He seemed to regret pulling John; he stood strangely stiff against the lift wall.

"Sherlock, be careful!" ordered John, slipping into doctor mode. "Honestly, do you _want _to come back for another round?"

"I'm fine," the detective said shortly. To change the subject, he took a quick look at John, deducing. "You had lunch with my parents."

"I started to, yeah."

"I expect they told you all sorts of lurid tales about how brilliant I was as a child," Sherlock rambled dryly. "Perhaps the time I built a whole castle miniature and working siege weaponry to scale, so I could destroy my castle in class."

"You actually did that?" John asked, incredulous. "Blimey. The best I did was the silly potato in a jam jar."

The taller man smirked, striding out of the lift as they reached the main floor. John followed on shorter legs, as usual, and didn't stop to wonder how Sherlock got a cab so quickly.

"221B Baker Street," Sherlock told the cabbie, then turned back to John. "If they didn't tell you about my school projects, what ___did_you discuss?" he asked, turning his blue-green eyes back to John. Something in John's expression must have worried him, because he spoke even faster. "Out with it, John. Rehab? Childhood bullies? My overdose?"

"No, none of that, exactly," John confessed. "The name came up, so Wiggins asked your parents about Redbeard."

Immediately, John swore he could see a wall slamming up behind those sharp eyes.

"I'm not a child anymore," Sherlock declared, his tone harsh. "Redbeard has been dead for seventeen years."

"I know," John replied, soothing.

"What do you know?" the other man snapped.

"Sherlock," the doctor said quietly, "I know what it's like to watch my best friend die."

The detective's angry expression softened. He said nothing for the rest of the drive, but the tension that had filled the cab lifted. When they reached 221B, Sherlock was perfectly polite to Mrs. Hudson, and walked up the stairs without complaint, although he stopped to catch his breath every three steps.

At last, after all the pain and confusion of the past few weeks, Sherlock and John were home.


	4. Morphine and Chips

Here is yet another 'missing scene' from His Last Vow. Sherlock has just been released from the hospital after his second, much longer stay, and John lives with him at Baker Street, since he's estranged from Mary. In this installment, the two men let out some of their feelings in their own, special, stunted way, and a surprising fact is revealed at dinner.

I don't own anything. Enjoy!

* * *

**Morphine and Chips**

Two days after his return to Baker Street, Sherlock lay on the sofa, staring at the ceiling. A nicotine patch contrasted sharply against the pale skin of his arm, and the scattered cold case files on the floor told John what he was thinking of.

"Lestrade's people are useless," Sherlock told John in lieu of a greeting. "That much hasn't changed."

"Good morning to you too," John said, making a beeline for the kettle. "Did you read every case file he gave you last night?"

"Of course," the detective answered, lazily scratching his arm. "My sleep patterns were never regular to begin with, but now that I'm weaning myself off the morphine? Impossible to sleep."

John considered this as he made his morning cuppa. "Are you sure you're ready to quit the morphine?"

"I know my limits," Sherlock insisted. "Besides, as you all so _helpfully_ remind me, I am a recovering junkie. Better give it up while I still can, don't you think?"

"Sherlock—" John began, unsure of how to word his thoughts. "We just worry about you, that's all. You've spent too much time shut up in this flat lately, and when we next see you you're high and bunking with the smackheads. Oh, I know," he said suddenly, watching Sherlock open his mouth. "It was for the Magnussen case. But Sherlock, you're a genius. Couldn't you have found a way to convince him, without actually _taking_ the drugs?"

Sherlock huffed. Had he been able to, he would have turned to his favorite sulking position, with his long legs tucked into his torso and his back facing John. As it was, he could only turn his head away from the doctor.

"I promised nothing would change after my marriage, and I meant it," John said, quieter now. "I know I haven't been around as much lately, but I will make it up to you. I promise," he finished, willing Sherlock to turn his head and _look _at him.

"You'll be late for work," the detective said, still facing the wall.

"I don't want to leave like this," John admitted. "Are you angry with me?"

"You don't trust me," Sherlock said, very quietly. "On an intellectual level I understand why, but it still bothers me more than it should, at least from you. I've never been a trustworthy man, why should I start being one now?" he asked, talking more to himself than to John.

The doctor set his cup down on the coffee table. "You didn't trust me with your false suicide plans, and it hurt," he said, painfully honest. "I don't think you realized just how much I would miss you, and it will take some work to rebuild the trust we had before. But," he added, resisting the urge to turn Sherlock's head by force, "Mycroft told me why you jumped, when we were waiting to see if you'd live after the shooting. Not what you said, about Moriarty's network. He told me about the snipers, and Serbia."

"I'll kill him," Sherlock muttered viciously, slightly muffled by the sofa. "I'll kill him, dismember him, and feed him to the wild cats at the London Zoo. Although they'd get indigestion, and it would be unnecessarily cruel to the animals. Maybe I'll just incinerate him and pour his ashes into the sea."

"You're a good man, Sherlock Holmes," John told him, and his tone told Sherlock that the man was smiling. "Try to hide it if you must, but you are. You're the best friend I could have asked for, and a bloody good best man."

There was a heavy silence. John knew his friend too well to expect a return of the sentiment, especially since he'd already said it at his wedding. Sherlock had faced everything from a best man's speech to a bullet to the chest, just for John.

"Now you'll _really_ be late for work," Sherlock said, but his tone had lightened considerably.

"Sod that," John said firmly, taking a seat on the coffee table. "They can wait."

Finally, the curly-haired man turned his head to face John. His blue-green eyes were bright and clear, so unlike the morphine-induced haze of the past weeks. It warmed John's heart to see his best friend looking like himself again.

"You don't need to be sacked for my sake, John," he said slowly, a tiny smile turning up the corners of his mouth. "I'll manage with Mrs. Hudson and some crap telly."

"Promise?" John asked, raising his eyebrows.

"Promise," Sherlock agreed. "Now go! I expect to hear brilliant observations of each patient when you come home," he added.

"But I've never done that," John objected. "I thought my job in this partnership was to save the lives, not to solve the murders."

"You can start small, and work your way up to murder. Find some cheating spouses or teenagers with a gaming addiction," Sherlock said matter-of-factly. "You know my methods, John. Now apply them."

"I'll do my best," John agreed, resigned. "Best be off, then. Text if you need anything."

Sherlock didn't answer. He had picked up his mobile and was busy composing a text to Lestrade.

* * *

John returned after work, with takeaway from Sherlock's favorite fish and chip shop. He found Sherlock exactly where he'd left him, though he'd finally fallen asleep. The detective looked younger like this, more vulnerable than usual.

Unfortunately, the smell of the fish and chips woke him.

"What time is it?" he asked drowsily. "Seven?"

"Half seven," John replied, impressed with Sherlock's internal clock. Or perhaps he'd deduced the time from the amount of light coming in through the windows. Either way, it was typical of Sherlock to be more aware of his surroundings while half-asleep than a fully awake, normal human.

"I see you visited Edwin," Sherlock said, slowly raising himself to a sitting position.

"Brought your favorite," John answered, setting the takeaway down on the table. "Extra portions, of course. I _might_ have mentioned that you've been in hospital and need proper food."

"You're a lifesaver," the detective told him, inhaling as deeply as his wound would allow. "As much as I neglect my transport, these five weeks of hospital food have taken their toll. I'll need Mrs. Hudson's cooking to, what was your phrase? Feed me up?"

John chuckled. "She'll be delighted. You took good care of yourself while you were away, though," he observed, remembering how thin Sherlock had been when John had first met him. "Mycroft told me you'd been in prison, but you had quite a bit of muscle mass when you came back."

"How kind of you to notice," Sherlock said, raising an eyebrow in a way that on anyone else, might have been called flirtatious. "While I was away," he explained, sitting and picking up a chip, "I had to rely on brawn more often than I'd expected, especially since I was always outnumbered. Three or four months into my exile, I began a strict exercise regimen and added more protein into my diet. It was dull, but necessary."

"And you were taking the mickey out of _me_ for cycling," John retorted, but there was no bite to it. "When your chosen form of exercise is to take down criminal networks, by what? Boxing? Martial arts?"

"That would be telling," Sherlock answered in between bites of fried fish.

"Oh, come on!" John cried, then taking a swig of his beer. "Give me _something_, Sherlock!"

"I picked up some krav maga from a contact in the Netherlands," Sherlock admitted. "I wasn't there long, just a few weeks, but it was enough to get me started. A few months later, I was infiltrating Moriarty's people in Germany, and that's where I joined the local gym. They offered a mixed martial arts class in the evenings."

John munched on his haddock, incredulous. Sherlock had always been agile, but it was strange to imagine him in a dojo somewhere, dressed in a bleached cotton _keikogi_, and learning attacks and holds without declaring them boring and storming out with a swish of his Belstaff.

"Will you show me some moves, sometime?" he asked finally.

Sherlock laughed. "John, right now _you_ are the only man I could fight."

"Oi!" the doctor protested. "I've gained _three_ pounds, Sherlock! I could still take down your obnoxious arse any day of the week!"

"It's not that," the detective replied, waving a chip dismissively. "You are the only opponent that would pull punches to avoid aggravating my injury."

Oh. Well, that was a good point, the doctor had to admit.

"I didn't say it had to be tonight, Sherlock," John said, appeased. "When you're better, obviously."

Sherlock finished his dinner with a happy sigh, and leaned back in his chair. "Very well. For now, though," he added, "we have a job to do for Lestrade."

"I thought he wasn't giving you field work for at least another week!" John cried, alarmed.

"Not that," the detective said. "I wish! But no, I have orders to watch every single one of these films," he said with disgust. "George brought them 'round while you were out."

"I think you mean _Greg_," John corrected automatically, then looked at the pile of DVDs. "I had no idea he was a Trekkie!"

"A _what_?"

The soldier laughed at Sherlock's confused expression. "Don't worry, I don't think it's contagious. You and Mr. Spock will get along like a house on fire, though," he added. "His attitude toward logic and sentiment is similar to yours."

"Really?" Sherlock asked skeptically. "So by the end of the films, does he suddenly understand the value of sentiment and abandon his principles? That's how it usually goes."

"Just watch the bloody films, Sherlock," John ordered, groaning as he sat in his chair. "Go on."

The younger Holmes brother sighed dramatically, and went to wash his hands, taking his sweet time. John stared with a raised eyebrow until Sherlock picked up _Star Trek: The Motion Picture_, and put it in the DVD player.

"Relax, this isn't even mindless violence," John said soothingly. "It's sci-fi, you might actually like it."

Sherlock shut him up with a glare, but sat in his green leather armchair and watched the film. He didn't even complain at the end.

Of course, that may have been because he'd fallen asleep.


End file.
